James Patterson - Don’t Blink

Just not quite yet. I was too consumed with the chase for the truth by this point. The same kid who had stared up in awe at the screen at Woodward and Bernstein in All the President’s Men was now too preoccupied with piecing together what had really brought me and Dwayne Robinson together that bloody day at Lombardo’s. Or, rather, who had brought us together.

If I had it right so far, it had all begun when Dwayne Robinson made some bad bets and lost money he didn’t have. He owed Sam Tagaletto, but Tagaletto was just a middleman. The person Dwayne really owed was Joseph D’zorio. After Dwayne bounced two checks, D’zorio could’ve broken his arms or sunk him to the bottom of the Hudson River.

But D’zorio didn’t become a mob boss by using muscle alone. He was smart and he was cunning. Played chess, not checkers. So he came up with a better way for Dwayne to pay off his debt. All the former ace southpaw had to do was break his long-standing silence with the media and consent to an interview in a seemingly random steakhouse with a credible journalist who would eat up the potential story.

Let the tape recorder roll.

“I have a message from Eddie.”

Just like that, D’zorio had set up Eddie Pinero. He had used Dwayne and me. But most of all, he had used the fact that Pinero would have a motive to want his longtime attorney dead.

It was a pretty damn perfect plan. Right down to my coming across the Pinero reference on my recorder. Of course I would have done that. In fact, had I not left my jacket at Lombardo’s and talked to the hostess, Tiffany, I never would’ve become the least bit suspicious.

That’s when D’zorio’s plan became a little too perfect. At least for me.

The question now was whether I could prove my theory to anyone, or at least anyone who mattered in police circles. And whether I would live long enough to do it.

The second I walked into my apartment I grabbed Derrick Phalen’s business card. It was only a little past two o’clock. Odds were he was in his office. Still, he had asked that I call him only on his cell.

Phalen picked up quick, only one ring, but then said he’d have to call me back in a couple of minutes. When he did call back, I could hear street sounds in the background. He’d obviously gone outside to speak to me. Was he being extremely paranoid or just smart as hell?

“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” I told him. “This is going to blow your mind.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” he came back. “What I found out last night will blow your mind.”

PHALEN SAID HE couldn’t get into his news right now and he didn’t want to discuss it over the phone. “Nick, can you come by my apartment tonight?” he asked.

Are you kidding me? Yeah, like anything could stop me.

I called Courtney on the way over to Derrick’s that night. She was quiet and reserved, so I didn’t bring up Thomas Ferramore, and I also didn’t get into what had happened in the Bronx today. I did tell her I was seeing Phalen, and she told me, “Be careful, Nick. I don’t want to lose you.”

At a few minutes past eight, I exited the Henry Hudson Parkway in the heart of the Riverdale section of the Bronx. Phalen’s street was a few blocks east and was lined with prewar brownstones. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

Save for one difference: available parking. I found a spot probably less than fifty feet from Phalen’s address.

As I grabbed my shoulder bag and hit the sidewalk, I was reminded of a joke my uncle Leo had once told me. I had been nine or ten years old.

“How do you keep a turkey in suspense?” he asked.

“I don’t know. How?”

Uncle Leo smiled. “I’ll tell you later. Turkey.”

I could barely wait to hear what Phalen had for me. I was actually speed-walking toward his brownstone and my heart was going pretty good. With one foot on the front stoop, however, I stopped.

Did I lock my car?

I couldn’t remember.

I reached into my pocket, my thumb searching for the lock button on my electronic key fob. I gave it a click and watched for the taillights on my Saab to blink – only they didn’t.

I clicked again.

No luck.

I cursed under my breath and started walking back, thinking I was out of range. The entire key chain was out of my pocket and aimed squarely at the dash. I was definitely close enough now.

But the taillights still weren’t blinking.

C’mon, already!

I shook the key fob, pressing the lock button hard a few more times. Was the little battery inside the thing dead?

No, it wasn’t. But I sure as hell was supposed to be.

BOOM! went my Saab.

MY CAR ROSE in the air a good three feet as an orange fire-ball raced toward me, then knocked me down, my body slamming so hard against the sidewalk that I actually blacked out for a few seconds.

When I came to, the sound of the explosion was still pummeling my ears. All at once I could hear the shattering of glass, the twisting of metal, my car being blown to smithereens!

Slowly I got up, but the heat from the flames was so intense I had to step back. Am I okay? Am I hurt more than I think I am? Am I still among the living?

I looked down at my charred clothing and got part of the answer. Smoke literally was rising from my sweater. I was dizzy and scared to death, but most of all I was relieved to be alive.

Okay, Nick. You’re okay.

Then came another awful scene – and the kind of screaming that raised every little hair on the back of my neck.

My head whipped left and right until I spotted a chocolate Lab dragging a leash on the opposite sidewalk. The dog was spinning in circles, barking like it had gone crazy.

Then I saw why.

Dashing across the street, I practically ripped the sweater off my own body. By the time I reached the curb, I was already flying through the air.

The dog’s owner, a college-aged kid, was on the ground in flames and screaming in agony. I landed on him sweater first, trying to smother the fire. “Help me!” he was pleading now. “PLEASE HELP ME!”

I was smothering the kid with my body and sweater. But the flames were stubborn and I needed help.

Thank God, it came. Whoosh! I felt the freezing cold spray of white powder against my skin. It was like an avalanche, and just in time.

I coughed and sputtered, barely able to catch my breath. Someone had rushed forward with a fire extinguisher, emptying what seemed to be the entire canister. That was fine by me. Really fine by the guy who was no longer on fire underneath me.

“You okay?” I asked as I finally rolled off him.

“I don’t know,” was all he could manage.

By now the entire street was filling with people from the brownstones. Anyone within earshot of the explosion had come out to see what had happened. They didn’t understand, but I did, and it chilled me like the spray of dozens of fire extinguishers.

Someone had just tried to kill me.

The next thing I knew, I was being helped to my feet by some good people in the crowd. “Are you hurt?” one man asked. “You okay, mister?”

I heard the question but didn’t respond. All I could do was look around at all the concerned, frightened faces. With each face I didn’t recognize, I became more afraid. “Oh, no!” I suddenly cried out. “Oh God, no.”

Then I was running away from the crowd. Fast, as fast as I could go on rubbery legs.

Like someone’s life depended on it.

I WAS NOW the designated madman on the street, the guy covered in white powder, with smoldering clothes and charred skin, with singed hair and desperate eyes.